


A Token Of My Devotion

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [31]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Awkward Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Fluff, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Sentimental, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a fucking TAIGA worth of pine, i've crunched the numbers, that's how piney it is, this whole thing smells like a fucking christmas tree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 20:49:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21143000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: Demons were not meant to be sentimental.“Sentiment” involved feelings like tenderness and nostalgia and fondness and, worst of all, love.Demons did not, under any circumstances, love.Well.Under most circumstances.There was, however, an outlier in the equation.His name was Anthony J. Crowley, and he was quite possibly the most sentimental being to ever walk the face of the earth, period.





	A Token Of My Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> on GOD this is the most Indulgent Nonsense i've EVER written

Demons were not meant to be sentimental.

“Sentiment” involved feelings like  _ tenderness  _ and  _ nostalgia  _ and  _ fondness  _ and, worst of all,  _ love _ .

Demons did not, under any circumstances,  _ love _ .

Well.

Under  _ most  _ circumstances.

There was, however, an outlier in the equation.

His name was Anthony J. Crowley, and he was quite possibly the most sentimental being to ever walk the face of the earth, period.

Not considering this outlier, the average amount of love or other such emotions felt by each individual demon was a solid  _ zero _ .

Adding in Crowley, however, caused that average to jump up to a whopping  _ 32 units _ (don’t ask what the unit  _ is _ , no one knows—well,  _ Someone _ knows, but She’s not really one for sharing pertinent information).

Granted, this doesn’t seem like much, but when one considers the sheer number of demons in Hell (somewhere around 133,316,666, disregarding a few  _ particularly _ unfortunate beings who’d run into slippery situations regarding holy water over the years), the amount of love that must be contained in Crowley’s very being in order to reach this number becomes a rather astonishing amount (around 4,266,133,280 units, to be exact).

And because Crowley was practically spewing love out of his ass at all times, one can be assured that he was also a  _ sentimental bastard _ .

Demons weren’t meant to be sentimental, but then again, Crowley was never been very good at following the rules.

**

Aziraphale was in his flat.

_ Aziraphale _ . The angel. The very same angel Crowley had been in love with since—well.

No need to go into that, really.

Anyway.

Aziraphale was  _ in his flat _ . Where he  _ lived _ . Where he slept and shouted at plants and watched  _ The Golden Girls _ and…

Well, that was it, actually, but  _ still _ .

_ Aziraphale was in his flat _ , and Crowley was sort-of panicking.

He’d never expected to get that far, honestly.

But there they were, sitting on his sofa ( _ sofa  _ is sort-of a strong word for whatever it was they were sitting on—it was not particularly comfortable or cushy or inviting or any of the other things that really categorised a sofa, but it was longer than a chair and you were  _ technically _ supposed to at least be  _ able  _ to sit on it, and it was far too fancy and fashionable to be called a bench, so sofa it was) and solemnly sharing a bottle of scotch as they enjoyed what might be their last night on Earth.

Which, alright. It wasn’t exactly the  _ passionate confession of undying love _ Crowley had been hoping for, but it was alright.

If he  _ had  _ to have a “last night on Earth”, he was glad it was with Aziraphale at his side.

“Would you happen to have anything to eat?” Aziraphale asked, breaking the heavy silence.

“Er, yeah,” Crowley said. “I think there’s some leftover Indian in the fridge—should still be good.”

(Actually, it  _ shouldn’t _ have still been good—it’d been in the fridge for a month and a half, since Aziraphale had insisted he take it home after dinner one evening. But the things in Crowley’s fridge had an odd habit of never spoiling, simply because Crowley figured things  _ didn’t spoil _ if once put in the fridge.)

“Ah,” the angel said. “Wonderful. If you’ll just point me in the direction of the kitchen—”

“Oh, uh, lemme just…” the demon said. He levered himself to his feet “I’ll show you.”

And so he led the angel in the direction of his kitchen—just down the hall, past the restroom and the—

“Good  _ God _ !” Aziraphale said, flinging his arms out all of the sudden. “What in Heaven’s name is  _ that _ ?”

_ That _ happened to be a rather slimy, rather oily smeared bit of Ligur on the floor, just outside Crowley’s office door.

“Oh,” the demon said. “That’s, uh—I used your insurance. On Ligur.”

“You— _ oh _ .”

“Yeeeeaaaaaah,” Crowley said, scratching the back of his neck. “Anyway, the kitchen’s this way—”

“Wha— _ Crowley _ ! We can’t just  _ leave it _ ! It could—there could still be holy water in that, and there’s no telling how it’s going to  _ smell _ after it’s been here a while,” the angel interrupted. “We have to—we have to  _ clean it up _ .”

“ _ I’m _ not touching it!” Crowley insisted. “Like you said, it could still have holy water in it! Besides, you think I’m just gonna go about sticking my hands in demon sludge?”

Aziraphale huffed. “I’ll get it, then,” he said. “Be a dear and go heat the leftovers, would you?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he muttered. “Suit yourself, angel. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done.”

He’d gotten Aziraphale in his apartment, and what had happened?

The two of them had drank in silence, were about to eat old curry and samosas, and now the angel was cleaning up demon gunk.

_ Excellent _ .

How  _ bloody  _ romantic.

Crowley was  _ so  _ good at this.

Fucking  _ bless _ .

The demon grumbled under his breath as he popped the leftovers into the microwave and pressed the button—the one, conveniently, named  _ leftover Indian takeaway _ .

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called out. “Crowley, dear, could you come here, please?”

“Uh, sure!” Crowley yelled back. “You—everything alright, angel?”

Possible scenarios flashed through Crowley’s mind—they knew the Powers That Be were after them, but surely they wouldn’t come to the flat, surely not now, not so soon, not already—surely they had time,  _ some  _ time—they couldn’t—there was no way—

By the time he reached the office, Crowley was, as some people (or, more likely, heavenly beings) might say,  _ a bit of a tizzy _ .

But there was Aziraphale—safe, whole, definitively  _ not _ on fire, looking as prim and proper as ever he as stood in front of Crowley’s safe.

His  _ open _ safe.

His open safe, which appeared to be empty, as Aziraphale was  _ holding the box _ .

The box, the one that Crowley had kept with him since he’d bought it at a market in Venice in 1834, the one with the shiny golden hinges and intricate carving on the front—a dove with an olive branch in its mouth, haloed by an ouroboros—the one that didn’t really matter so much as what was  _ inside it _ —

“Put that down!” Crowley snapped, eyes wide. “Don’t—just—it’s nothing, just—put it down, would you?”

Aziraphale stared at him for a moment. “Crowley,” he muttered.

“ _ Please _ .”

Aziraphale did. He placed the old wooden box down on Crowley’s desk with the sort of care he usually reserved for impressively old first editions. “Crowley,” he repeated.

The demon made a choked off, broken noise that stuck in his throat.

“I—” he started. “Did you look? Inside it, I mean?”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “I did,” he said quietly.

Crowley felt like the world had shifted on its axis. Everything was moving 26 degrees to the left—maybe Adam had changed his mind, maybe the world  _ was _ ending, and this was how he did it, by changing the whole bloody rotation of the entire fucking planet. Crowley had to hand it to the kid, that was a creative way to bring about Armageddon, definitely had style, extra  _ GE  _ points—

Oh. No, that was just Crowley, teetering over just a bit so that he was leaning against his desk.

Great. Brilliant. Fucking  _ tickety-boo _ .

“Oh,” Crowley said weakly. “That’s—cool. Awesome. Good for, uh, good for you, angel. Well, in that case, I’m just gonna—I’m gonna go lie down for a bit. Just, uh. Nothing serious. See you in a century or two—”

“ _ Crowley _ ,” Aziraphale cut in, and that was his  _ Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, I Insist That You Put That Book Down Now, Thank You _ voice. Crowley froze where he’d been (suavely) making a mad dash for his bedroom and slowly turned to face the angel.

“Hm?” he said, raising his eyebrows and (casually, not at all with the aura of a Babylonian government official scrambling to escape a lions’ den) leaning against the door frame.

“I think we need to talk,” Aziraphale said evenly.

“About what?”

“You—there’s a  _ feather _ in that box, Crowley. A  _ white _ feather. An apple pip. An oyster shell. A pair of tickets to Hamlet. A chunk of wood that seems to have come from a church pew. A pair of white gloves I could have sworn I lost  _ ages _ ago. A—a letter. A few letters, actually.”

“Yeah?” Crowley mumbled. “So?”

“So— _ Crowley _ . Dear boy, look at me,” Aziraphale pleaded, and Crowley had never been able to say no to him.

When he did, the angel’s eyes were filled with tears, and there was something like sadness in his eyes, but there was also a smile on his face, and he radiated such  _ joy _ that even  _ Crowley _ , a demon, could feel it.

So, decidedly  _ mixed signals _ .

“Why didn’t you ever  _ say _ ?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shrugged. “Yesterday you said we weren’t even friends,” he replied. “I didn’t want to—I didn’t want to  _ go too fast _ .”

There was a beat of silence, and then—

Crowley couldn’t breathe, couldn’t  _ think _ , could barely manage to keep his entirely ornamental heart beating as Aziraphale cupped his face in his hands and kissed him and kissed him and  _ kissed him _ —

“I love you too, my dearest,” the angel murmured, pulling Crowley close. “I love you too.”

Demons weren’t supposed to love, and they definitely weren’t supposed to fall in love with angels and prevent the end of the world.

But as Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s hair, surrounded by every little treasure and sentimental thing, he figured that there was no use in playing by the rules  _ now _ .

Besides, he had always been a rather awful demon.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed


End file.
